Eames was rarely, if ever, full disclosure, darling. He had bothered with disclosure when it suited him and when he was backed into a corner and he still worried about the fragmented mind, the chinks in the wall, the dreams that had come when the town was on fire and burning endlessly in the lantern of his skull. He dealt in trades, in measure for measure and he had nothing of Jeremiah's to hang in the balance. No, darling, he had nothing he wanted of Jeremiah's, and he had no burning desire for information that could be traded on.
He talked plain language when it suited him, and riddles otherwise. Now, with the cool from the lake whipping in along the ground, he enjoyed a shiver running down the middle of his shoulder-blades. There was comfort in not getting too comfortable.
"They're ephemeral," Eames said, using a word that seemed a mouthful. "Dreams. Writing is more permanent, darling. If you're going to write, write down something worth dreaming about."